


two bros chilling in a bathtub

by nikkiRA



Series: Happy Steve Bingo [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bathing/Washing, M/M, i hate that tag and i hate how unoriginal i am, i've been trying to title this for a week this is the best i could do, this is frankly disgusting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 05:59:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16034426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikkiRA/pseuds/nikkiRA
Summary: Bucky still didn’t look away from what he was doing. “You can’t save them all. You’re the one who always says that.”“You should know I don’t believe half the stuff I say.”Bucky smirked. “So you got detention…” he said, in a poor imitation of Steve’s voice.“I knew I shouldn’t have shown you those videos.”





	two bros chilling in a bathtub

**Author's Note:**

> written for "non sexual intimacy" and also i'm sorry about this

Bucky came home to find Steve spread out like a starfish face down on the bed, still in his uniform. He disappeared without saying a word and returned a few minutes later. 

“I ran you a bath,” he said. 

Steve loved him. 

Bucky helped him out of his uniform, pinching it with two fingers and holding it away from him as though it was likely to blow. He chucked it in the corner to deal with later. His hair was up, today. He was wearing a simple black tank and a pair of pants that, judging from the size, had once been Natasha’s. They said PINK across the ass and were stretched irreparably around Bucky’s impressive thighs. He had three hair ties on his metal wrist and bright blue polish on his toes. 

“Nat do that?”

“Clint, actually.” Bucky wiggled his toes. “He drew arrows on the big toe. Get in.”

Steve did as he was told, groaning as the water hit his muscles. It was almost too hot, just the way he liked it. He leaned his head back, expecting porcelain and finding Bucky’s thigh instead, perched on the edge of the tub, soft flesh and hard muscle making an excellent pillow. He sighed in contentment as Bucky ran his fingers though Steve’s hair. 

“Should’ve showered first,” he muttered. “I’m gonna be sitting in my own filth.”

Bucky grabbed a jug off the side and filled it with water. “You’ve already been sitting in your filth,” he said, lifting Steve’s head up and pouring the water over it. “Grab me the shampoo.”

He did, passing it to Bucky behind him, who worked it into Steve’s hair with firm fingers. He was dangerously close to letting out another embarrassing moan.

“I could paint yours,” Bucky said suddenly. “Make ‘em red white and blue, keep you disgustingly patriotic.”

Steve laughed. “Maybe later,” he said, as Bucky started pouring water over his head again to wash out the shampoo, using a hand to shield Steve’s eyes. “My toes will be all pruny.”

He could perfectly picture, even if he couldn’t see, the way Bucky would have wrinkled his nose up at that. “Good point. Maybe I can draw little eagles on them. Or guns.”

“Guns?”

“Something American. I don’t know.”

Steve laughed and leaned his head back again on Bucky’s thigh.

“You’re getting my pants wet,” he complained. 

“They’re not even your pants, unless you’ve started buying clothes three sizes too small.”

“One to talk,” Bucky said. “I like the way my ass looks in them.  So do you. Don’t complain.”

“I’m not. You’re the one complaining that I’m getting your pants wet.”

Bucky scooped up some water and dumped it over Steve’s head, not avoiding his eyes this time. 

Later, when the bath was done and they were sitting on the bed, Steve’s feet in Bucky’s lap as he painted Steve’s toenails (“Please wear sandals out tomorrow, Fox News will go nuts”), Bucky said, “What happened?”

Steve didn’t answer right away. Instead he watched Bucky, at the careful way he painted Steve’s toes, how his metal hand had red and white and blue smudges all over it from where he had accidentally gotten the polish on Steve’s skin (Steve’s fault -- he had ticklish feet and couldn’t stop squirming). Eventually he said, “There were unexpected hostages. We lost quite a few. We weren’t prepared.”

Bucky still didn’t look away from what he was doing. “You can’t save them all. You’re the one who always says that.”

“You should know I don’t believe half the stuff I say.”

Bucky smirked. “So you got detention…” he said, in a poor imitation of Steve’s voice. 

“I knew I shouldn’t have shown you those videos.”

“Only reason you never got detention was because you were too sick to go to school half the time. Little shit.” This was said with great fondness. He looked up at Steve with warmth in his eyes. 

He hadn’t wanted to fight. He had shown up at Steve’s 3 months after pulling him from the river, standing on the front porch with a backpack buckled around his chest and said, “I’m not going to fight for them, either.” And Steve hadn’t asked, not even once. Even when they might have needed it, even though Bucky would have been a great asset (no, not asset, never an asset, never again). Bucky had never been a fighter, had only fought when he’d had to. And it had turned into a lifetime of violence. 

Steve would never make him fight again. Not if he didn’t want to. He was better like this, happier, having the liberty to explore this new century on his own terms, and Bucky took to it in a way Steve never could. And occasionally it garnered strange looks or scathing news reports, the Winter Soldier seen frequenting nail salons or wearing shirts that said stuff like  _ princess  _ in large sparkly letters. But Bucky was happy, and that was all Steve had ever wanted. 

“There,” Bucky said, moving back. “Don’t you dare ruin my work. Just lay there and do nothing.”

“Was this just some elaborate plot to get me to rest?”

“Maybe,” Bucky admitted. “But it’s also cute.”

Bucky dropped the nail polish bottles off the side of the bed and then lay down beside Steve. “I’ll clean that up later,” he muttered into Steve’s shoulder.

“No you won’t, you’ll get up in the middle of the night, step on it and wake me up by screaming and swearing, and then I’ll pick it up.”

Bucky smiled. “Later,” he said, draping the blanket over them, making sure Steve’s feet were sticking out at the end so the polish didn’t smudge. They lay there for a couple moments before Bucky said, “Fuck.”

“What?”

“The lights are on.”

Steve laughed. “You have to turn them off. Can’t ruin your work, after all.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “You’re lucky I love you,” he said, rolling out of bed to turn the lights off. “Punk.”

“Jerk.”

(Steve did wear sandals the next day -- Bucky framed the news article, titled  _ Captain Ameriqueer?  _ He put it up on their bedroom wall.)

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @aravenlikeawritingdesk


End file.
